


I Can't Remember (Why I Didn't Love You Sooner)

by DilynAliceBlake (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Amnesia, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6375955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DilynAliceBlake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compulsory amnesia fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock opens his eyes, John’s sigh of relief is audible.

“You absolute _berk_!  What were you _thinking_?!”

“I’m in the hospital,” Sherlock observes.

“ _Yes_ you’re in the hospital!  After a jump like that, you’re very lucky not to be in a _hearse_!”

“Calm down.  I can’t seem to recall what happened.”  He chooses not to mention yet just how much of what happened he can’t remember, though the date on the whiteboard by his bed is more than a little worrying. 

“We were following up a new lead on the Jenkins’ case, which for some reason gave you the impression that you needed to get from the third floor to the first without the use of stairs!”

“I’m sure I had good reason.”

The blonde man opposite him seems to keen onto something all of a sudden.

“Sherlock,” he says, crossing his arms and shifting to lean backwards in the uncomfortable looking chair.  “What’s my name?”

Sherlock winces, caught out.

“I’m, ah, afraid I can’t quite remember that either.”

The man ( _doctor, soldier_ Sherlock’s deductions whisper,) sighs again, this time sounding resigned.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sweeps in some time later, all ominous umbrella and shallow intimidation.  Still, at the sight of him Sherlock’s jaw drops.

“Myc?!  You’re not _fat_!”

Mycroft seems torn between preening at a compliment he wouldn’t have been able to pry out of Sherlock with pliers and a crowbar, and showing his obvious distress at his brother’s alarmingly _younger_ manner.

“You haven’t called me that in nearly a decade; I was actually beginning to hope you’d dispensed with the juvenile nickname.”

Sherlock’s response is sassy and brisk.  “Oh, good then, you’re still a pompous git, not everything has changed.  I was beginning to worry I was out of my mind, but no, there’s no faking that.  Bet you’re still single, too.”

“Oh, _you’re_ one to talk.”

Sherlock makes a face like an irritated fish, this time aimed at John.

“What, seriously, I get to live with you but we aren’t dating?  My future self managed to talk you into cohabitation but stopped short of seducing you into marriage?”

John splutters, and Mycroft aims Sherlock a smirk.

“You were under the rather unfortunate misconception that the good doctor was straight.”

“How the _bloody hell_ could I have gotten that impression?  He hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a full sixty seconds since I woke up, including an impressively short trip to the loo!”

John is torn between embarrassed and amused.

“You know, you do have a head injury,” he half-heartedly excuses, not quite an objection.

Sherlock dismisses the interjection from the soldier.  “There are plenty of other doctors here, actually charged with my care.  You’ve licked your lips three times in the last hour alone.  I’m not _blind_.  Or, I didn’t used to be.  I hope I don’t become an idiot again when my memory returns.”

“So sure it will, brother mine?”  Mycroft’s tone holds more hope than condescension.

“Yes Mycroft, you insufferably nosy prat.  I’m already starting to remember the slew of failed diets you had to go through before you found one you deemed bearable.  The only logical conclusion being that the rest will return as triggered.

"…However, on the off chance that I _do_ remember something that will stop me later,” Sherlock says, and then reaches the short distance between himself and the now standing John, yanking him forward by his jumper and kissing the startled man thoroughly.

When John rights himself he is shocked and dazed, and the unruffleable Mycroft looks slightly uncomfortable at the display.

Sherlock seems smugly satisfied, and settles back into his covers with a smile.  Soon he’s dozing again, and Mycroft sends John a pitying look.

“Well, everything seems to be in order then.  Good luck, John.”

“That’s it then, you’re just going to leave me to deal with this?  No unexpected visits, periodic check-ins, creepy spying?”

“I do have a country to run, Doctor.  Besides, I’ve already dealt with his wild years once.  I’m grateful to pass on the mantle and leave him in your more than capable hands.”

Mycroft seems to notice his own innuendo, nose crinkling in distaste, and he makes a hasty exit before his brother can awake once more for more concentrated attempts at wooing.


	3. Chapter 3

“You _let_ me kiss you,” Sherlock’s rumbly voice intones.  John starts awake to see the detective sipping water through a straw and raising an eyebrow cheekily.

“I’m recovering from physical trauma; weak as a kitten.  The only way I could’ve pulled you down is if you wanted to be pulled down.”

“Got the rest of your memory back then?”  John asks.

“Nowhere near it,” Sherlock responds.  “I do remember some of our time as flat mates though.  I remember _you_.”

“Right, well, that’s good-”

Sherlock cuts John off by purring his name.

“John Hamish Watson.  Mmmm, has a nice ring to it.  Wouldn’t want to ruin it.  John Hamish Holmes.  John Watson Holmes.  John Hamish Watson-Holmes.”

“Stop that,” John strains out.

“Why, you don’t like it?”

“No, I do, I _really_ do.”

Sherlock’s eyes sweep John’s form.

“Hmm…”

“That’s...That's your experimenting face.  Sherlock, what do you have planned?”

“ _Sherlock Watson,_ ” Sherlock tries, and watches John experience a full body twitch of physical approval.

“Oooh, that’s the one.”

“It’s a little early to be talking about marriage, don’t you think?  We aren’t even dating-”

“Aren’t we?”

“Okay, fine, yes, but still, this is new-”

A scoff from the hospital bed, and John concedes another point.

“ _Acknowledging_ this is new,” he corrects himself, “and I think maybe it would be better if we took it slow.”

Sherlock licks bottom lip, slow and deliberate.  It’s transparent and underhanded, but it works none the less.

“ ** _How slow is slow?_** ”

“ _Christ_ , that _voice,_ Sherlock…”

“Mmm, that’s what I thought your answer would be.”

John forfeits that battle as lost, and takes no small amount of delight in snogging his boyfriend.

 


End file.
